


Sleeve

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-18
Updated: 2012-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-31 09:52:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/342679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a confirmation that Sherlock is still there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleeve

Sherlock always walks ahead, brisk and confident, even though he was dead. But now he’s not. He’s still pretentious and useful and _alive._

But John reaches for his sleeve anyway, tugging on it once to make sure that is most certainly attached to a solid, real, living person. Sherlock doesn’t pull his arm away, doesn’t even acknowledge John’s new neurosis, just keeps walking with his arm slightly behind him, the sleeve caught between John’s thumb and forefinger.

He has let go by the time they reach the crime scene (a murder in an alley, just ten blocks from Baker Street).

But ten minutes in to Sherlock’s examination (under the stares of Anderson and Donovan), John is reaching for Sherlock’s cuff again.

And, once more, he says nothing, just sort of allows John to attach himself there as he looks over the body.

“What do you think, John?”

“I think,” John’s fingers tighten on Sherlock’s sleeve, “that the victim was killed before he was bludgeoned.”

Sherlock frowns. “On what do you base your assumptions?”

John gestures with his free hand. “The blood flow there on the back of his head? It’s pitiful. Residual, even.”

“Perhaps he was moved.”

“No,” John points to the dumpster, “the corner of that dumpster, there? That’s where his head was slammed.”

Sherlock smiles, a small thing. “Excellent.”

Lestrade looks between them. “Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“You’ve got something on your. Sleeve.”

Sherlock looks blankly at the Detective Inspector (newly repromoted) and shakes the arm John is attached to. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Lestrade.” John lets go though, a warmth crawling up his neck.

“Ah. I see. Well. Any idea of the murderer?”

“Of course, this case was a three, I just wanted to take a walk.”

John listens as Sherlock explains (God, he’s missed this, Sherlock’s a genius, such a genius) and follows behind him when he walks back toward home. Lestrade, Anderson, and Donovan share a look that Sherlock doesn’t see but John does.

Well. It’s just.

The impulse to _check_ is so hard to resist that John doesn’t even really think about it before he reaches for Sherlock’s sleeve.

Again.

Except this time instead of connecting with the man’s sleeve, he connects with his hand instead.

“Sherlock?” John doesn’t stammer, no, because that’s silly and he _hates_ looking stupid in front of Sherlock. Sherlock hums. “What?”

“Nothing,” there is a squeeze, “I’m just making sure you’re there.”

“Oh,” John replies, squeezing back. “I am.”

“So am I.”

Neither of them let go on the walk toward Baker Street, no do they speak. Sherlock opens the door, with one hand, sheds his scarf, and whirls John into the living room.

And he will admit his surprise at the kiss, small, a peck, but still, from _Sherlock_ —

“Still here?” He asks and he sounds so. Small. Sherlock, ha, sounding small. But he does. ( _Of course, he’s not a rock, John, he probably wanted to come home as much as you wanted him here—_ )

“Yes,” John replies, tugging Sherlock close again for another one. “Always, you idiot. Where else would I go?”

A huff, a laugh.

“Same to you.” And they kiss again.

Contact. An assurance. A conformation.

_I’m sorry._

_I love you._

_Stay here._

_Of course._


End file.
